Beside her sat Sellena, her Sheason mentor, who was asked, more than a little, to do some rendering to bring to life concepts Ketrine found in her books.
Tonight, atop her table, there were a dozen small parchment golems walking with an amusing crickle-crinkle into a standard battle formation.
She didn’t look up at him, remaining focused on the placement of the paper warriors. She pointed, giving Sellena instruction on where to position the golems. Thaelon smiled. It was a game. One he and his little girl had been playing since she was five. “Parchment war,” they called it. Originally, it had been a simple strategy game, paper soldiers with various movement constraints. And back then, it was played mostly with a whimsical sense. His wife, Haley, had provided Ketrine’s rendering.
A stack of thin parchment was placed in front of each player, and with a modicum of Will, that parchment could be rendered to take the basic shape of a person, and given a simple purpose. Initially, that purpose would be to fight. With time, the game had changed, as Ketrine learned deeper strategy and collaborative attack techniques. The game board became open terrain and the golems became soldiers with distinct rank.
Tonight, he could see his little girl was combining the lessons of combat with those of imparting, specifically imbuing—rendering skills she’d have to understand to become Sheason.
“I need to speak with you,” he said. “I have a favor to ask.”
She nodded for him to continue, as she instructed Sellena to stand up a few more golems and position them opposite her staggered line. She reached out and shifted the placement of a few, somewhat impatient to have them precisely where she wanted them. After doing so, she referenced a handbook—a copy of Himshawl’s Art of War.
“It’s not something to be taken without real thought,” Thaelon added, coming around to the other side of the table so he was directly in her line of sight. “But I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think you were the right one to ask.”
Still she did not look at him, indicating to Sellena where she wanted a few of the golems to move relative to her first line’s flank.
“I’m listening.” She continued to study the layout of the broad table and the position of the two opposing paper forces.
Thaelon smiled with understanding. “You let me in to test yourself. To see if you could run your battle scenario without being distracted.”
He saw a slight crimp at the corner of her mouth, a hint of smile, before her concentration took hold again.
“Very well, let’s just have us a game, then.” He sat with a flourish opposite his daughter and began to fashion his own paper army from the stack of sheets before him.
The sound of parchment rustling, ripping, and bending had a kind of humor in it. Maybe because the little figures looked so harmless as they prepared to fight. The paper soldiers he brought to life had legs and arms, but no real head. Height and width became their rank designations. Ketrine’s eyes gleamed with anticipation, and she had Sellena reposition all the golems from her stack into a unified force.
Thaelon looked over how she’d laid out her general and soldiers, and gave her a mischievous smile. He’d make this a greater test still—he animated every parchment in his stack to fight, save his own general. His paper force outnumbered hers three to one. In response, Sellena began to try and match his numbers, but Ketrine held up a hand, as he knew she would. His little girl would see if she could outthink him with fewer golems.
“If I win, you’ll finally endow me? Make me Sheason?” She showed the smile of a challenger.
“If you win, I’ll let you keep your paper scraps.” He laughed. “And I’ll stop trying to sing you lullabies.”
“Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.” She knocked the table’s edge, indicating she was ready.
He nodded, and held a palm up for her to go first.
She went at it with energy. First, she drew her line back into a near circle, removing the possibility of being flanked. Smart maneuver, given the ratio of golems between them. She whispered to Sellena, and a handful of her figures refashioned into barricades that she placed strategically, to force Thaelon to attack in only two spots. Not bad. But Thaelon crumpled several sheets of parchment, and had pairs of his golems heave them over the barricades, where they landed and rolled and scattered her circle.
She gave a small laugh, while her expression remained focused. Her army re-formed its circle each time it was hit. But she didn’t counterattack. Instead, a few of her golems rolled the paper balls to extend her barricade, further limiting access to her paper army. She’d taken a purely defensive posture.
Thaelon wanted to force her strategy—not to mention he did still need to talk to her—so he made a push with most of his golems. A sheer crush of paper bodies moved in a wave against her buttresses. The golems used one another to climb over barricades and paper boulders. He meant to simply wash her under, or force her offensive mind to take command.
As his stampede of golems reached her circle defense—the crickle-crinkle of paper arms and legs like the sound of a rain shower—they all suddenly stopped. It took Thaelon a moment to see. While he’d been pressing his advantage in numbers, his little girl had lulled him into believing that her strategy was defense, preservation, limiting damage. Really, she’d been buying time to execute a deeper, more effective strategy.
He looked down at his general. The golem had torn a bit of his body away and held it aloft like a surrender flag. While Thaelon had imagined Ketrine would be forced to consider one of very few counterstrategies, including surrender, instead she’d changed the game. She’d leveraged another of the disciplines of imparting: realignment. His general had been brought in line with her own interests. It was a classic “move the head and the body follows” approach. He’d focused so much on the point of attack, he’d left little energy to look after his commanding paper man.
She’d passed his test more impressively than he could have hoped. Albeit with a questionable strategy. He held up his hands. “You win.”
In a great unfolding, all the golems fell, their paper bodies flattening.
“As though it could have happened any other way.” Ketrine got up from her chair and came around to give him a hug. When she stood back, she added, “You’d have seen through it, though, if I hadn’t made you believe I was just trying to outlast you.”
“Maybe.” He gave Sellena a nod, letting her know she could go.
Once Ketrine’s mentor had drawn the door shut on her way out, he let out a long breath. “You are close, you know.”
“I know. I’m in no hurry. I’ll be Sheason when it’s right.” She returned to her chair.
When he had her attention again, he gently admonished, “Realignment works fine for items with no real will. With people,” he held up a finger, “it’s almost impossible, carries immense risk … and it’s not permitted.”
It made Thaelon think of Vendanj, a Sheason who would see no ethical issue with using realignment if he thought the need was just.
“I know,” she said. “But we’re talking about parchment war. Now, what’s so urgent that you came during study hours?”
Thaelon gathered his thoughts. “Our tension with the League must be addressed.” He paused, regarding his little girl before asking this. “I need you to go to Recityv. As my envoy. To speak with Ascendant Staned.”
“And what do you want me to say?” she asked, gentle sarcasm in her tone.
“Simple enough: We want the Civilization Order repealed. We won’t sit idle anymore as Sheason are killed. Don’t threaten him, mind you. But that’s the crux of it.”
“And why do you think he’ll listen now? Many have been asking the League this same thing for years.” Ketrine began to shuffle the parchment back into stacks.
“Because you’re going to offer the resources of Estem Salo to help the League establish its schools, train beggars in trades, build physic shelters to care for the sick.” He handed her some parchment from his side of the t
able. “If Roth is genuine about his creed, he’ll listen.”
She stopped her straightening of parchment, and eyed him thoughtfully. “And if he doesn’t?”
He sighed. “Then we’ll know that their Civilization Order isn’t about self-sufficiency for citizens, but aimed at eliminating the Sheason. That’s still good knowledge to have.”
“In which case, you’d like me to do to him what I did to your general.” She held up the sheet she’d realigned to win their parchment war.
“No,” he blurted, rather too forcefully. “No,” he repeated, softer. “I think the partnership is something he’ll be eager to have.”
“I love you for your optimism,” she said, giving him a genuine smile. “And maybe you’re right.” She tapped the parchment into a neat pile and set it aside.
“If you’re unable to convince the Ascendant, don’t push too hard. Just gracefully leave Recityv.” He paused a moment, realizing she wouldn’t be alone. “And by no means let those who go with you render while you’re there. Or if they must, be sure they’re not found doing so.” Thaelon kept as much real concern out of his voice as he could.
“Others are going with me?” She spared a look in the direction Sellena had exited.
“Four. You may ask Sellena to be one of them. The others will be a few of Odea’s best.”
“Because we may have to fight. Defend ourselves,” she observed.
“Just to be safe,” he clarified. Then thought better of that answer. “Yes, in case you have to fight.”
She fell silent for several moments, rubbing at the binding of her Himshawl handbook. “I should mention the Quiet to the Ascendant,” she said, speaking firmly. “He should know that if they come, he’ll need our help.”
Thaelon stared back at his little girl, unsure how to respond to that. How to meet the Quiet had a lot to do with Vendanj. And he didn’t want to talk about him just now. If not for Vendanj, there’d likely be no Trials of Intention. No need to send Ketrine to Recityv. Damn hells, half of the League’s distaste for Sheason was Vendanj’s fault!
“If the Quiet come … yes. But when and how to address that, we’ll save for later. For now, just be sure the Ascendant knows that Vendanj doesn’t speak for us. Focus on mutual goals. I wouldn’t offer if we didn’t believe in some of these things, too. In at least a few respects, we stand on common ground. We can build from there.”
She looked up at him, a grateful smile on her face. A second time she got up and came around to hug him. “Thank you for trusting me with this. I won’t let you down.”
He hugged his little girl back. “I love you. You know that.”
“I love you more,” she said. “Now, let’s find Ma. She needs to know you lost our parchment war tonight.”
He laughed, and together they left her room in search of Haley.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Bourne: Fugue
Men swear on their lives. The Quiet swear on their damnation.
—Response of an Ir-Caul footman, in the days after the War of the First Promise, when asked, “Do you think the Quiet will return?”
Kett had never been this far from home. He wound his way north and west on the old roads, walking for three days now without seeing anyone he recognized. There was a change in the air and sky and landscape around him. The air had a thick, still, close feeling. Heavy like a storm might soon break, but never did. The sky seemed farther away, the canopy of charcoal grey like one endless blanket—no white, no black, no wind. The landscape wasn’t stark, though. All was not basalt and crags. Things grew. It just took a great deal of work to ply the fallow land, tame soils that preferred the wild grasses and brambles.
Peeling ailanthus trees occasionally shed a curl of bark. The soft, woody sound as it struck the roots below was loud and unsettling in the silence. Once in a while he saw the ailanthus silk moths fluttering in the tree’s long, pointed leaflets. The moths made no sound, the beating of their wings as silent as everything else.
On the road itself, other than the encroachment of brambles, Kett met only bones, which he thoughtfully stepped over or around. He could tell from their skulls that these were mostly Inveterae. The bones might have gleamed—so picked clean—if not for the absence of sun. It all gave Kett the feeling that he moved deeper into a land—the whole of it—that served as nothing so much as an ossuary.
It also made him think Lliothan was right. Inveterae living in the south of the Bourne—treacherous as it was—didn’t understand as much as they thought about this side of the Veil. Walking toward his induction into the Quiet ranks, Kett glimpsed the fuller condemnation of the Bourne. But rather than weaken his resolve, it fortified him. The Inveterae didn’t belong here. It was a mistake. He’d correct that error … or die trying.
The afternoon of the fourth day, he emerged from a canyon road, which snaked its way down into a broad valley. At the valley’s center spread Kael Ronoch, a vast city. It simultaneously inspired his awe and fear. The sheer size and organization of the place was a wonder. From here he could see the clean lines of roads set at perfect right angles, and waterways carefully laid out as irrigation canals. But the city itself looked like the brambles he’d been treading past for three days. Spires rose in profusion from city walls and rooftops and obelisks and immense halls. From a distance, it all looked like a thicket of bulrushes growing from a lake of brackish water.
He started moving again, keeping his same unhurried pace. Other, larger roads began to intersect with the one he traveled. As he neared Kael Ronoch, he finally encountered a few travelers. None spoke to him, though a few did cast sidelong glances his way, measuring. Some of those he encountered were Quietgiven races he knew—Bar’dyn, Yarshoth, Wole—but others he didn’t recognize. And at least once, he was sure he was seeing an Inveterae race he’d never seen before—something in its eyes. The thought that there might be other Inveterae not known to him left Kett with the same mixed feelings as he’d about the city itself: awe … and fear.
He arrived at the gate, where six heavily armed Bar’dyn stood perfectly still, moving only their eyes. One finally stepped out to block his passage.
“What’s your business here, Inveterae?” the Bar’dyn asked, a deep and lilting derision in its voice.
He considered several replies before saying simply, “I am Kett Valan.”
A look of recognition, if not approval, lit the sentry’s face. “Basilica’s fingers reach the highest.” The Bar’dyn pointed up at the spires that topped every building, and then away into the city. “Keep moving.”
Kett nodded and took maybe three steps past them before the Bar’dyn whipped a heavy pike across the back of his head. He stumbled forward and nearly fell. No laughter came, no further challenge. Kett didn’t look back or curse. And he didn’t check to see if the blow had drawn blood. He simply walked on.
As with the old roads he’d traveled to get here, Kael Ronoch lay steeped in silence. Quietgiven walked the streets, but rarely spoke. They moved with a sense of dark purpose, but it wasn’t exactly malice in their eyes. More that they seemed humorless. The feel of the place hung in the air like a suffocating smoke.
Kett saw many more Bar’dyn as he trod the stony road, which had been laid out not in cobblestone, but great slabs of rock seamlessly fitted together. And just as often he saw Quiet races he knew only from the spoken stories. Laedan moved along, sometimes strolling on four feet, sometimes on two; their brushed shorthair twitched the way an animal’s does when bitten by blackflies. Always near the Laedan were Rimaan Brode. Their long necks turned fast at the clop of every heel; skittish things with a long gait that made them appear always to skulk. Kett spied a pair of Kausellots, seams of bone protruding from their skin like stitching. The bone ran up their necks and over their cheeks and around their eyes. It looked extremely uncomfortable.
And more Quiet races yet, a dozen more, maybe two dozen. Some with wings folded against their backs. Others with reticulated tails that seemed more like long add
itional arms.
But the look and variety of species wasn’t what bothered him. Not by half. What left him unsettled was the dark shine, one to the next, of the same burning intensity—intelligence, focus. It reminded him of the way anger settles into calculation for those who won’t forgive a wrong.
And even that wasn’t all of it. Not until he saw another Gotun Inveterae like himself did the realization come to him. We look the same. Inveterae and Quiet.
What he felt here—different from Inveterae lands—might be nothing more than another half turn of a stick-and-wetcloth tourniquet. It was the deeper sense of ruin, and demand for vengence. He understood the bitterness of those feelings. It lived inside him, as well. But somewhat paler. Still, he wasn’t afraid here, as he’d thought he would be. And that proved to be the most unsettling thing of all.
The buildings had been raised of roughly hewn stone. Great care had been taken to create symmetry. Mortar cemented together dark basalt rock chiseled into precise rectangular shapes. But surfaces remained jagged. Doorways were no less than four strides high, and equally wide. Some led into structures large enough to accommodate Quietgiven much bigger than Bar’dyn. The doorways had no actual doors, giving the street and main level of the city an interconnected feeling.
Up the street, a forge emanated heat into the chill air, lending it an acrid smell that soured in his nose. Inside the forge, several fires burned—eight in all—as muscled Bar’dyn wielded huge hammers and beat rhythmically at orange steel. The shop reminded Kett that Inveterae weren’t allowed to carry weapons.
It wasn’t until after passing countless barracks that he realized Kael Ronoch was little more than a garrison. It made sense to him now that they’d summon him here to be installed among their ranks. But he had to believe the city served other purposes. Though if it did, those purposes escaped him.
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